Instinctively
by ChristinaCatherine
Summary: Danny has been prioritizing ghost hunting over all else. Deprived of sleep, Danny is less equipped to masking his tendencies that are attributed to fighting. When wimpy Danny Fenton is not so wimpy any more, how will his classmates react? Pre-PP.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello. This is my first foray into the Danny Phantom fandom. I apologize for any important deviation from canon; I have not seen any Danny Phantom since its cancellation. Needless to say, my memory is a bit foggy. Assume that all of the discrepancies are intentional liberties that I have taken as a fanfiction author and that this is but a slight AU.**

**DISCLAIMER: I have already stated that I am a _fan_fiction author, posting a work of _fan_fiction on a _fan_fiction site. Incidentally, I do not own Danny Phantom and am merely a _fan_.  
**

* * *

Danny Fenton was pissed.

He had the benefit of—he glanced at his clock; _3:17_, it reported in glowing numerals—four hours of sleep before the chill of his ghost sense permeated his subconscious. This, in itself, may not have prompted much of an emotional response—it happened all the time—except for just that: Lately, it happened _all the time_. Danny could scarcely remember the last full night he had of uninterrupted sleep. By his count, it had been weeks.

Couldn't the ghosts give it a rest?

With an annoyed huff, a resigned "Going ghost" and a flash of light, Danny phased through his bedroom window and began to maneuver his way down the streets of Amity Park. He didn't bother gaining enough altitude to fly _over_ the buildings; from what he could tell, the ghost he was pursuing was relatively weak, and besides, doing so could have exhausted the energy he needed to activate his Fenton Thermos.

Okay, perhaps he wasn't _that _tired. It certainly felt like it, though, and if this were just the Box Ghost again, he might have to test whether or not repeated ecto-blasts could cause the bringer-of-cardboard-doom to lose form.

* * *

The next morning—_later that day_, he reminded himself with a few half-hearted curses for all things box-like and square—Danny braved the school bus rather than fly to Casper High. He shot another glare at the blue Ford parked in the driveway of Fenton Works, but he once again imagined the psych-analysis he would undoubtedly receive and for which he really did _not _have the patience at the moment, and thence he duly strengthened his resolve. Moreover, if he waited around for Jazz to wake up, he might fall back asleep, and then he probably wouldn't wake again until at least four in the afternoon, alarm clocks and frantic sisters be darned.

He trudged his way to the bus-stop, and when he arrived, he pressed his face to the cool, metal post in front of him. Removing his phone from the un-torn pocket of his jeans, he cracked open an eye and studied the screen for several seconds. _6_…_6:29_. He wracked his brains, groaning. When would the bus arrive? No earlier than 7:00, surely… That made sense, right? Well, he would find out… hard to miss a bus…

_HONK._

Danny jerked awake, fist colliding with the sign post before stopping to survey—but _ouch_. What was with these stupid, _metal_—

"Rise and shine, Sonny Jim! I've got kids to drive!"

Couldn't they ever get his name right?

"I'm _not—_"

He blinked. _I am talking to a pole_, he realized. _Wait, _'_I've got kids to drive'? No world domination, no 'your pelt on my wall'…_He turned, and, mortified, he recognized a bemused bus driver and a bus filled with teenagers who were laughing at the expense of That Fenton Kid.

Briefly, he wondered if it would seem suspicious if he were to turn invisible at that moment and ask Jazz for a ride, after all.

"Crud," he muttered as he stepped into the gutter and proceeded to discover his phone, along with several inches of mud.

This day was starting out _great_.

* * *

In first period, Danny was distracted from his study of _how do get in some shut-eye while appearing to pay attention _by a crumpled piece of paper hitting his desk. Catching a meaningful look from Sam, who quickly returned to the lesson, he slowly unfolded the note.

_OK?_

Dead on his feet or not (he refrained from snorting), he didn't need her look to recognize that particular handwriting. Still, he smiled weakly; she knew him too well.

_Beware!_, he penned, then drew a rectangle for good measure and, to some degree, out of spite. Checking for Lancer, Danny hoped to catch Sam's eye. Surely enough, she turned back around momentarily, and Danny flashed the note in her direction. He glared when she seemed torn between sympathy and amusement. Just as he prepared to silently defend himself from her stifled laughter, Sam's eyes widened, and a ruler descended upon his desk with a resounding _crack_.

"_Mis_ter Fenton, Miss Manson, would you care to share with the rest of the class?"

Danny obscured the note from view.

"Um, no, Sir," he squeaked.

Sam, thoroughly confident in their being cryptic enough that Mr. Lancer would divine nothing of Danny's ghostly activities, rolled her eyes at her best friend.

"No, Mister Lancer."

Eyes narrowed suspiciously, Mr. Lancer reached out to seize the guilty sheet of paper, but then he faltered.

"_Dubliners_! Daniel…"

It was at that moment that Mr. Lancer fully noted the state of Danny's person: the mud that splattered his sneakers and the hem of his jeans; his unkempt hair and obvious lack of recent bathing; the minute cuts and bruises that were randomly distributed along every expanse of uncovered skin; the dark, tired circles beneath his eyes.

"…what's _happened_ to you?"

Danny looked away. "Nothing," he mumbled, "Just tired, s'all."

For several tense seconds, Mr. Lancer watched him with an unreadable expression. "Very well," he finally conceded. Danny sagged with relief as Mr. Lancer returned to the front of the classroom.

"Oh, and Mister Fenton?" At the sudden address, Danny, who had resumed his attempts to get in a nap, nearly unbalanced his chair in his haste to sit up straight.

"Yes, Sir!"

"Please meet me after class."

Danny groaned.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this. I have the second chapter written and will upload it shortly. I do have a plan for _Instinctively_, but even I had not expected Lancer to be involved, so who knows where this is headed?**

**On a side note, Tucker has not mysteriously disappeared. By the singular stroke of misfortune that is realism, Danny does not share every class with all of his friends in this story. ****No, this is not a particularly important detail... To be honest, I simply did not feel like writing a part for Tucker in this chapter. *shrug***


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you, Fluehatraya for your review! Wow, that was _fast_.**

* * *

Five minutes before the end of the period, Mr. Lancer dismissed his students. "Yes, I am releasing you early," he reaffirmed when several students had not left their seats, preferring to stare at him incredulously. "Don't expect this to become routine, however!" Earning a few cheers regardless, Mr. Lancer waited until only one student remained. Leaning forward and steepling his fingers, Mr. Lancer surveyed the anomaly before him.

Danny Fenton shuffled his feet, scuffed one hole-riddled shoe against the other, fidgeted with the straps of that dingy purple backpack of his and sporadically wiped his palms against his clothing. The boy's eyes, Lancer noticed, jumped from the door, to the window, to the door, sometimes to the closet and occasionally to himself; he did not, however, spare the clock any attention as Lancer might have expected of a teenager who possessed the simple desire of escaping a teacher's company.

An anomaly, indeed.

The silence was punctuated by a yawn from the youth, and Mr. Lancer saw fit to speak.

"Mister Fenton… _Daniel_," he began.

"Danny."

"Pardon?"

"Danny. Call me Danny." Danny looked particularly unsure of himself at that statement. Mr. Lancer smiled slightly.

"Danny," he amended. "You entered this classroom last year, and do you want to know what I saw?"

Silence. Eventually, Danny answered quietly, somewhat bitterly, "A loser who couldn't do something right even if—" He stopped, and he did not continue. His eyes stilled, focusing on a point near the conjunction of wall and floor.

Mr. Lancer's expression hardened. "I saw _potential_, Danny. I saw a boy with a thirst for knowledge, who wanted to be an astronaut, who had the _intelligence_ and _determination_ to do so. Do you want to know what I see now?"

Danny remained silent.

"I see a slacker." Danny flinched. "I see a student who is truant more often than not, whose portfolio couldn't jam the cheapest of staplers and whose lack of effort could put any prospective Nasty Burger employee to shame." Again, Danny flinched. "Daniel…Danny…is this truly the path that you wish to take?"

The silence stretched on.

"I don't lack effort, Sir," Danny said slowly, "And no, I wish—" He choked slightly. "Well, I try not to wish very often," he explained, and he smiled nervously as though having told a joke. When Mr. Lancer did not respond, Danny continued, slightly put-out, "I, uh, this, um, _path_… It's not necessarily the path that I, the path that I _chose_. Well, I suppose it is, but you see, I, erm… It's the path that I _have_ to take, Sir."

Lancer studied Danny, Danny shifting from foot to foot, time and time again, as he stared back.

"Why is that, Danny?"

"Well, you see, Sir! Imagine"—Mr. Lancer sensed that he was about to receive an extremely specific metaphor—"Imagine that you had, um, that you had _su_per po_w_ers. Would you use it and save people, or would you–would you ignore it and act like—like nothing's—" Danny seemed to bite back a yawn. "Would you just ignore it and act like everything's normal?"

Well, that was certainly different than what Mr. Lancer had expected. Super powers? What was Daniel talking about?

After some consideration, Mr. Lancer replied, "Well, if it were in my power to help someone, I suppose I would help him or her."

"Even if—even if helping people… even if the helping people thing, Sir, cut into other things, like, say, school?" Panic flashed against Danny's face, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Mr. Lancer watched him, feeling that he was the closest to the truth that he had yet come but still confused as ever. _What? _The lad was cutting class to help people? Whom could he be helping? Either Danny was more gifted at inventing metaphors than Lancer had thought, or he had stumbled upon a greater enigma than he had anticipated. What was that about super powers? Inexplicably, Lancer thought of the ghost whose name and the debate of whose hero status were branded on every other newspaper he purchased, Invis-O-Bill or Danny Phantom or whatever the spook called himself.

Mr. Lancer attempted to appear empathetic, despite his mounting headache. "Danny," he started, standing slowly and reaching out to touch the teen's shoulder. When Danny tool a step back and appeared bewildered as he followed every movement of Mr. Lancer's, he withdrew his hand. Danny glanced between the window and the door—window, door, window—then finally flitted his eyes to the clock.

Disheartened, Mr. Lancer continued, "You know you can tell me—" He stopped when Danny jerked his head to the side. He sighed. "You know that I care about you, right?" Danny appeared relieved.

"Yes, Sir."

Wondering if he had made_ any _progress with the boy, Mr. Lancer experienced a rush of gratitude for it being his conference period as he reached forward for a booklet at the edge of his desk. When Danny twitched and focused on Mr. Lancer's hand, somehow appearing more nervous than he had when he was frantically establishing and re-establishing contingency routes, Lancer felt the need to explain.

"I'm writing you a note to give to your second period teacher."

_What's happened to you?_

Danny released a large breath.

_Abuse?_

Lancer dismissed the possibility. He had been trained to recognize child abusers. Danny's sister seemed more concerned than he, Mr. Lancer, and neither Jack nor Maddie Fentom matched anything of which he had been warned. He did not find attractive the thought of running in and opening an investigation based on professional obligation and zero intuition. No, having Child Protection Services on the doorstep of Fenton Works would not be helpful, and he doubted that Danny would grant him any measure of trust ever again.

"Oh, okay. Thanks, Sir."

_Bullying?_

It could very well be so, but that would not explain Danny's unexcused tardies and absences, missing assignments or apparent sleep deprivation, nor did it fit with what Danny had said earlier.

After appending his signature, Mr. Lancer held out the note to Danny.

"Thank you, Sir," he repeated. As Danny turned to leave, Lancer stopped him one last time.

"Danny?" He smiled. "Call me Mister Lancer."

Danny smiled back.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Wow, I am truly amazed by the response to this. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favorited and/or placed this on alert! You guys rock!**

**kyrenlover105: You're right; Danny does stutter too much. I had been trying to imply that the poor guy's mental processes are not what they could be and that he is having trouble articulating sentences, but there is a difference between _re-wording after having already spoken_ and _saying the same syllable three times_. I will go back through and clean it up a bit. (Also note that a lot of what Mr. Lancer mistakes for nervousness is actually Danny trying to keep himself awake, hah.)**

* * *

Perhaps getting his foot stuck _in_ the floor—_again_—was a sign to Danny that second period would be humiliating, but if it was, he ignored it and kept walking.

When Danny stepped through the door, it was obvious that he had interrupted when Mrs. Kang was mid-sentence—which was a joke, really; if anything, she was probably telling an anecdote that was irrelevant to anything that might ever occur in the curriculum. He ducked his head and handed over Mr. Lancer's note, and he wondered why he had even bothered; it was only eight minutes until the end of class. What was one more truancy, anyway? Then, at the sudden pang of guilt he experienced, he recalled the reason: If it were not in an effort to protect others from ghosts, a killed insect would haunt him to his dying—_oh, forget it_. Hero complex, conscience of a guilty marshmallow, inability to use ghost idioms without drowning in irony… _Welcome to the half-life of Danny Fenton_.

As he stood there, waiting for Mrs. Kang to finish her inspection of the note, his classmates were whispering amongst themselves. They couldn't have known that Danny was half-ghost, much less that ghost-human hybrids had keener hearing than full humans and that, therefore, he could pick up much of what they were saying; but he still felt slightly resentful that they would speak of him so plainly, seemingly unheard or not, when he was _right there_.

"—passing love letters—"

"—that Goth dweeb—"

"Ugh, nerd love is _so_—"

"—loser—"

"—looks more terrible than usual—"

"—all-nighter playing video games or something—"

"—stinks."

"—no personal hygiene—"

"—really gross—"

"—such a loser."

Finally, Mrs. Kang seemed to decide that the excusal had not been forged. Danny thought the whole thing was stupid—it had been written on Mr. Lancer's personalized stationery, for goodness' sake!—but said nothing.

"Settle down, class. Daniel, return to your seat immediately."

Every eye turned on him. _'Return to your seat immediately'? _Did she really have to treat him like he had left his seat without permission, only to commit some grievous misdeed of which his puny mind could only begin to fathom the severity? Maybe some of his annoyance had shown on his face, and that was why she was acting like he had killed her cat or something.

He walked to his desk, _the one with the cracked chair and with so many carvings that it's impossible to write on_, scowling. He slung his backpack over his shoulder—

—and its body tore from its strap, the momentum causing his books, along with months of incomplete homework assignments, to scatter down the aisle.

At that moment, the bell rang. In the natural attitude of teenage apathy, his peers filed out without sparing a second glance for him or his belongings. They certainly seemed to care a minute ago, when they were talking about him like it was _any of their business_…

"I expect you to clean this mess, Daniel," sniffed Mrs. Kang, and she was gone.

He handled his now-footprint-covered papers as though they had dealt him mortal injury.

He really, really disliked being called by his christian name. He was Danny and _only _Danny. Mr. Fenton, Fenton, Fentina, Fenturd, Fentoad, Fentoenail… There was a lot of names that he could deal with, but _Daniel_ never failed to remind him of his arch-nemesis, Vlad. Why did teachers feel the need to call him that, anyway? His name on the roster was _Danny Fenton_; his family knew him as _Danny Fenton_; his friends knew him as _Danny Fenton-sometimes-Phantom_; heck, not even the most clueless of journalists or ghosts ever called him Daniel. It was always Danny.

If he didn't know any better, he might believe that school employees were actually omniscient and used their secret knowledge to play a giant game of spite. He only waited for the day that they would start using chess metaphors and calling things "quaint" just to inflict a personal, headache-inducing level of creeped-outness upon him. Well, maybe Mr. Lancer was an exception.

Mr. Lancer…Danny had _really_ messed up. _Super powers? _Lancer _had _to know that Danny was not nearly imaginative enough to invent something like that on the spot, especially while half-asleep.

In the end, he decided that crumpled, dirty homework he would never do anyway was pointless to keep, so he threw it in the _recycling bin_ (the blame for which he fully appointed to Sam) and was done with it. He gathered in his arms the books he had barely looked at and the backpack that was in dire need of replacement, and he left the Biology room in which he had learned nothing of Biology.

* * *

**A/N: ****I do not plan for Mrs. Kang to make another appearance. **

**Don't worry; the plot kicks in at lunchtime. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Wow. I am ****humbled by the overwhelming response to this. _Thank you_; thank you to every one of you.**

* * *

"Wait, so that means it took you—_three hours_," managed Tucker between laughs, "to fight the _Box Ghost_? Dude, I think you're losing your touch. Oh, oh, man…"

He continued laughing until Sam elbowed him in the ribs.

"Ow! What was—what?" He started slightly, confused by his friends' expressions.

"_Quiet_, do you want the whole school to hear?" asked Sam irritably. "And let Danny _fin_ish."

Ignoring Tuck's interjection of "_Lo-o-ove_birds," Danny carried on with his account. "One, he was at least ten miles away, and I was flying at about _negative four_ miles per hour. Two, he was _underground_, trying to save some stupid box that someone buried. _In dirt_. Under_ground_. Do you know how impossible it is to fight while _inside _of something?"

"Hey, what's wrong with dirt?"

"Dude, I don't think it's possible for you to fly at—"

"Wait! Since when does your ghost sense extend that far?"

Danny rubbed the back of his neck. "Honestly? I don't know. If I can do night watch while lying in bed, I'm the last person you'll hear complaining."

It was the beginning of lunch hour. Sam and Tucker had met Danny outside of the Biology room ("Dude, what happened to your stuff?"), and after a quick detour to his locker ("Danny, why even bother keeping these things?"), they were headed to the cafeteria. As they approached the double-doors, Tucker experimentally sniffed the air.

"Ah…_meat_," he exhaled. Another sniff. "Possibly"— he drew in a deep breath—"oh-ho, _steak_!"

"Ugh. Can you detect a veggie burger in the vicinity?"

"Sam," said Tucker as though addressing the subject of Jack Fenton's bunion-afflicted feet, "_meat _connoisseur. I do not waste these finely-tuned senses on soy-based substitutes."

They stepped over the threshold, and before Sam could cite the virtues of tofu, Danny stalled his friends. "Hey, guys, I think I'm going to find a _nice_, _hard_ lunch table and rest my eyes for awhile." As though to prove his point, he yawned widely.

"Sure, Danny."

"Yeah, dude, you need it. No offense, but you look terrible." At that comment, Sam chose to re-acquaint his foot with her combat boot. "I mean—yeah, go ahead, Danny! We'll wake you up when the bell rings!"

Danny felt that there was a logical flaw in that, but he didn't care enough to sort it out. He sat at a corner of the first empty table he saw. As he dropped onto the bench, he sank his head into his hands and readily accepted its relief. Sounds began to reel in and out of focus, and he slowly succumbed to the lethargy of sleep.

* * *

There were precious few factors that sheltered Danny's dual identities from public knowledge. The delicate balance between an ignorant majority and doubtful minority, carefulness on Danny's part and minute differences in appearance constructed a partial, capricious guard. The ultimate distinction between Phantom and Fenton existed in an area of his mind that was conducted by rational thought: the difference between a dubitable hero and definite loser, between situations that cried for deliverance and ones that urged avoidance, between enemies that were threats and enemies who were effectively harmless—enemies to whom he had learned to play victim in order to preserve the shallow depths of his façade.

Instinct, however, bore no such discrimination, and it was instinct that governed his actions in the muddled moments between sleeping and waking, wherein Danny suddenly found himself being lifted by the collar of his shirt. His body performed as it had been conditioned for months to do. Between sleeping and waking, Danny faced his enemy with the might he had learned as Phantom.

His hand shot up and dislodged his attacker's; then, in one fluid movement, he gripped the arm to which it was attached and twisted it, using it as leverage to throw its owner into a neighboring table.

Within three fatal seconds, the action was complete, and several feet away lay the crumpled form of Dash Baxter.

A hush fell around him, rolling in a single wave, progressing from one person to the next as it caught the students of Casper High mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-gesture, mid-breath. The shock of the instant was preserved in time so perfectly that Clockwork himself might have intervened.

Slowly, Danny raised his head, information being processed in scattered bands. The crowd had stilled around him, yet it blurred, working and roiling like seething water, at once seeming to press in upon him and retreat. He spotted Sam and Tucker—Sam was pale, a hand over her mouth; Tucker was mouthing words that were lost to him—and registered a shout of "_Great Gatsby_!" before his world exploded in pain and darkness.

* * *

**A/N: ****Oh, the dreaded cliff-hanger. I feel like a horrid person.**

******I am aware that the pacing was a bit off, that there was little build-up to the "fight" and that it was very brief, but that was intentional. It was meant to be sudden; I plan to devote more time to the aftermath and consequences.**

**Also—no, Dash is not dead. That would be darker than I am willing to go with this, and it would be rather unfair to kill him off on his first appearance in the story!  
**

**Typhex: I prefer Christina, but you may call me by any derivative of my username that you like. :)  
**


	5. Chapter 5

The first sensation to enter his awareness was pain—throbbing, white-hot _pain_that seared the back of his head and echoed throughout his skull.

The second was darkness. His eyes were closed, and he feared to open them for reasons that eluded him; it was related to the pain he felt, but perhaps that was but the strain of thought—

Light. Bright, artificial: unnatural, but thankfully not _super_natural. There were shapes that he could dimly perceive, even as his eyes fought to adjust

The effort had been fruitless. His surroundings were indecipherable—and the pain; his head, surely, had been cleaved asunder—

He fell into unconsciousness once more.

* * *

Pressure.

He felt what he could only term as pressure, and he struggled to reconcile it with something with which he was familiar...

Warmth.

He opened his eyes.

"Danny!"

He had been drawn awake by another's hand on his own, and recognition did not find him until the name slid thickly from his lips.

"J...azz?"

"No! I mean—shh, don't try to talk..."

"Wh...app'nd?"

"Danny, shh! You've suffered a traumatic brain injury, a four on the Glasgow Coma Scale, and...Danny, your head's been hurt. You'll make it worse if you—if you do anything."

"How..."

"Do you want to make the pain worse?"

Danny frowned. He knew the answer, but what was the word?

"Not."

That wasn't right.

"_No_, Danny, no, you do _not _want to get worse, and that's why you'll—you'll stop speaking."

_No_. That was it.

"Ah, yes, he is. You're awake sooner than we might have expected, Mister Fenton," said a new speaker. He started to examine the female doctor who had entered the room, but he took in little other than her standard white coat before the pain in his head spiked, and he shut his eyes.

"...developments?"

He hadn't noticed her begin to speak.

"Aphasia, slurred speech," responded Jazz, and Danny felt slightly annoyed that he was being spoken _of_ while he was sitting in the room. Had that happened recently?

"Aphasia? What words has he had trouble with?" Danny detected the sound of paper moving against paper.

"Just one. 'No.' He said 'not' when he had meant 'no.'"

_It's not like asking the _patient_ what's wrong with him will cause spontaneous combustion._

"Thank you, Miss Fenton." Then, she advanced toward Danny—brown hair, brown eyes, Robertson on her nametag; he doubted that he would remember her for more than a week—with a small, metal object in hand. After his brief inspection, he decided that his eyelids were too heavy to hold open. She only had a flashlight.

"Daniel, please open your eyes."

_'Daniel'? _

_Why should I?_

"Daniel, I just need to check how you are—doctor stuff, you know. Please open your eyes."

_Please treat me like I'm five. _She smelled of cleaning fluids.

"Daniel, please. I need to do this. Another doctor tested you before, but it's been awhile, so I need to check on you again."

_Wait, what?_ Danny didn't remember having tests run on him. What if they had...

"Now, was that so hard?" There was a metallic glint before light ran across his vision. It was gone as quickly as it came, and Dr. Robertson was set to explaining before Danny had the chance to react.

"That was to see if your pupils—the pupil is the black part of your eye—" _Gee, thanks, I wouldn't have known _"—are responding to light properly. They are, which is very good for you, Daniel."

This woman was starting to really get on Danny's nerves.

She looked at Jazz. "I'll leave you alone with your brother. Your parents have been contacted." With that, Dr. Robertson left, and Danny briefly entertained the hope that she would not return.

"Danny... Don't speak," Jazz added quickly when he was about to respond. "Um, blink twice for 'yes' and three times for 'no,' okay?"

Danny blinked three times.

"Little brother, you seem... upset. Did Doctor Robertson bother you?"

_She was only acting like I'm about as bright as a broken streetlamp, Jazz. Weren't you here the whole time?_

"Oh, quit freaking out."

"D-Danny? What is—" she spluttered, "How are you—?"

"It's no big deal, Jazz. I've gotten concussions before, and I was fine! Stop worrying."

Jazz seemed ready to say several things at once, but instead she whispered urgently, "Danny, calm down; Mom and Dad are probably almost—"

"You've had concussions in the past, Sweetie?" came the voice of their mother as she entered the room, blue hazmat suit more conspicuous than usual against the sterile white of the hospital walls.

"What! Danny's been hurt before?" shouted Jack Fenton as his hulking figure invaded the doorway and he nearly shoved his wife aside in his fervor, "Did it have something to do with _ghosts_?" If Maddie's suit stood out, then Jack's was the sickening amalgamation of everything bright and orange.

Well, at least he didn't have to explain to the doctors why he was hypothermic.

* * *

**A/N: I am off to bed. Sorry if I've failed to note anything important.**

**A/N (5-13-12): Well, I'm sure late, but here's ****what's going on in this chapter.**

**Danny received his injury at the end of chapter 4, when "his world exploded in pain and darkness."**

The explanation for Danny's improvement is that he is healing rapidly. Jazz doesn't know of this being one of his powers (hence her reaction when Danny tells her to quit freaking out), and obviously nor do the doctors (Dr. Robertson commenting on how he was awake sooner than expected, correct pupillary response to light being "very good"). I also tried to hint at this with the progressive coherence of Danny's inner thoughts.

The hypothermia line at the end was a reference to Danny being worried that his powers are slightly out-of-control. He thought that, because Dr. Robertson did not make any mention of his temperature being significantly below the norm, his temperature was not taken; however, it was, and in reality, his ghost half/ice power were not influencing his body temperature when it was recorded.


	6. Chapter 6

_This isn't good_, noted Jazz. She then returned to her previous line of thought: _How in the world is he recovering so quickly?_

"What? Ghosts? No. No!" Danny replied as though it were a completely ludicrous suggestion, "No, what makes you say that? I wouldn't mix with _ghosts_!"

It should have been impossible. Not even an hour ago, he was unresponsive to painful stimuli; now, he was articulating sentences with ease, and that was not nearly the extent of his symptomatic strangeness.

Then, Jazz cognized what Danny had said, and she stared at her brother incredulously. Sometimes, she wondered how he had managed to keep his secret for so long. Redirection could be effective, but his was often a strange and thoroughly _useless _breed of redirection. Danny _had _to realize that shouting, "I'm not a ghost!" was hardly conducive to having their parents remain convinced of that fact. Reverse psychology was not an obscure concept…

"Oh, Dad's just being silly," comforted Maddie, frowning.

"Hey, it's a valid concern!" Noticing the glares of both females present, Jack relinquished his efforts and resolved instead to pout indignantly.

…Then, again, Mom and Dad _were _more than slightly oblivious.

"Sweetie," repeated Maddie. Jazz watched several emotions play across her mother's face. _That _was worry, and _that _was… hesitation, understandably. Maddie was accustomed to kicking down doors and rushing in with guns blazing. Often literally. _Typically_, in fact. "We just want to know why you've been getting hurt, and why—"

She needn't continue. Why his grades were falling. Why he missed curfew. Why he came home with cuts and bruises. Why he avoided the lab whenever possible. Why he avoided _them_. Jazz knew, but they couldn't, not yet.

"We just want to help you, Honey," Maddie finished abruptly.

"Mom, Dad, I—"

"Danny's being bullied in school!" Jazz blurted, smiling contritely and shrugging at Danny's outraged expression.

"What? Why didn't you tell us?"

"No-one messes with Jack Fenton's family! Who is it, son? I'll tear them apart—I mean contact Mister Lancer. Your mother and I will contact Mister Lancer because that's what responsible parents do." He seemed slightly uncertain, though. He turned to his wife, apparently for confirmation; she nodded, and he happily slung an arm across her shoulders.

"Well, um, there are a few people who—wait." Danny's eyes widened. "Dash. Did that actually—am I just imagining…? Crud. Crud, crud, crud, crud, _crud_." Danny gripped the edge of the bed. "What happened to Dash?" he asked hoarsely.

"He'll be fine. He's already been discharged," said Jazz gently.

"But, I mean, what happened to him? And—oh, _crud_." His knuckles turned white.

Jack and Maddie stood in confusion. Maddie flexed and relaxed her fingers; Jack simply furrowed his brow.

"What…" Maddie began but was promptly silenced by Jazz.

"Don't worry about that right now, Little Brother. He'll be fine, and you'll be fine. Everything will be okay. Inhale through the nose; oxygenate your brain…

"Danny, please?

"Okay, good. Good." Jazz sighed and turned to her parents. "Uh, can I talk to Danny alone for a minute?"

Danny hit his head against the wall in exasperation. However, he seemed to reconsider doing so upon realizing what pain it caused.

"Aw, Jazzypants, come on, we—"

"You must be…Mister and Missis…Fenton" Dr. Robertson entered the room, and she stared at the Fentons for several moments before pinching the bridge of her nose. "Yes, that would explain a few things. All right. If you would come with me."

"But—why can't we stay with our son?" asked Maddie, frustration evident in her squared shoulders and balled fists.

"It will only be a moment, Miss," said Dr. Robertson dispassionately, already stepping over the threshold.

With a last, furtive look at their children, Jack and Maddie followed suit.

"No. No, no, no, no, this is not _happening_." Danny's hands were shaking.

"Danny, you got into a fight," said Jazz slowly, "Dash initiated it, and you were barely aware of what was happening. What you did was reflexive." She gave him a tiny smile. "But no-one needs to know why you have those reflexes in the first place."

Danny stared. "What—happened—to—Dash?" he repeated deliberately.

"A few bruises—they're really minor; they'll be gone in a week—and, well…"

"Jazz."

She exhaled. "Broken arm," she finally admitted, "Dislocated shoulder."

"What! Crud, this is _not good…_"

"Danny, it wasn't your fault. He'll be healed in a few months, anyway, so—"

"Yes, it was! And Jazz, he's a _football player_! He'll lose his scholarships! This could ruin him!"

_I'm rationalizing. I'm trying to protect him. I need to deal with this objectively. Be objective. Deep breaths…_

"No, no, no, no, crud, crud, _crud... _I used my Phantom strength against a human; I used my Phantom strength against a student. Not good, not good… Wait. Did anyone find out? Is that—is that why I'm here?"

He was going to become a big jumble of stress and anxiety if he didn't calm down.

"No, Danny. You were injured because… Well, when you _did what you did_ to Dash, Kwan…"

* * *

"…didn't mean to do it; I swear I didn't. I was just freaked out, man! I saw Dash lying there, and Fenton was standing over him, and I just—I don't know. I didn't want him to beat on Dash or go crazy on everyone else or, or—oh, man. I was just trying to pull him away, but the table was there, and I wasn't thinking right, and, and—I swear I didn't mean to do it!"

Kwan was at the police station of Amity Park. He was not seated in an interrogation room, and he did not know he would be less comfortable if he were. He felt more exposed this way, surrounded by constant sound and movement: officers getting coffee, talking, making phone calls, coming in, going out, opening and closing drawers, shuffling through files…

They obviously did not hold his questioning in high esteem.

"Yeah, I got that, pal. Okay, Fenton is the, eh, blond kid?"

"What? I mean, no, man, Fenton's the one that I—oh, man, I really… Oh, man. I'm never going to get out of jail, am I? You're going to throw me in for life, aren't you? Oh, man…"

"No, kid, you're not goin' to jail. Just gi'mme a straight report, would you?"

"No, no, it's fine, man! You don't have to lie to me, or anything._ Man_, I'm going to jail… I didn't see that one coming. Deserved it, though, don't you think?"

The lack of formal investigation was probably because his case was so hopeless. He was never going to be free either way; why waste time and resources on him? That had to be the answer.

"_Je_sus, kid, you off your head? I just _told_'ja you're not goin' to jail! I just need the damn _story_."

He was going to spend the rest of his life in prison. _Wow_. He hoped that Fenton might forgive him at some point.

"I got to take this call, kid. No funny business, you hear?"

_Wow_. He would never go back. Never again would he sit with the A-listers, or play football, or go to the park, or watch television, or eat at the Nasty Burger…

"Hey, Cone or whatever your name is, you listenin' to me?"

"Will I ever see my friends again?"

"Eh? Your teacher said you're only suspended for a week, kid. A right lot more direct he is than you are, for sure. Go along, now. And don't go bashin' any more heads into tables, or we _will _throw you in the slammer. Half a mind to do it meself, I have… Oi, kid, I said run along!"

Kwan blinked. "Run where?"

"Along! Home! _Out_!" With that, the policeman grabbed Kwan by the collar.

_This is it; I'll never see daylight again_—

"Stop! I didn't mean to do it! No, please, man, you can't put me in jail; I have, like, my whole life ahead of me! Stop, stop, stop—"

Kwan attempted to arrest their movement by latching onto a nearby desk. To his misfortune, said desk had papers taped to its every surface, and all that Kwan accomplished was to remove several photographs.

"No, stop!" Kwan nearly sobbed.

"'Ey, boys, can I get some help over here? Too old for this, I am, hah…"

Eventually, a very upset and befuddled Kwan was wrestled to the sidewalk. For several minutes, he watched cars pass, watched people going about their daily business—a woman pulling a child from a pastry shop even though he _didn't want to go_; a man with his dog, holding a sign entreating passerby for whatever could be spared; a gaggle of giggly girls chattering about everything and yet nothing substantial; people driving one-handedly or while phoning or preening or fiddling with the radio—before he gained his bearings.

Kwan could have killed someone. He could have killed _Fenton_—wimpy, dweeby, helpless _Fenton_, who fought back for once in his life and somehow succeeded. Kwan should have known that Danny wouldn't have done anything more, wouldn't have kicked someone who was already down, wouldn't have attacked a person without reason; Danny wasn't like that. He wasn't like… Dash.

Kwan felt sick. Had he cast away everything he had? Would he lose his scholarships, his spot on the team, his grades, his...friends...?

"My life is _over_."

The homeless man looked up. _Lost everything_, his sign read,_ Anything helps_. "Join the crowd, Letterman."

There was a sharp pain in his hand—small, nothing truly remarkable—and he noticed the tape-edged print-outs he still held in his fists. He unfolded them to reveal a familiar, white-haired, green-eyed ghost.

_I bet you wouldn't get into a mess like this, huh?_

Kwan started walking.

* * *

**A/N: ****Thank you to everyone for your responses, and I hope that not _all _of you want to punch me for disappearing like that. I was ill for a few weeks with a rather nasty infection, and I returned to school with a mountain of work to make up. (Not to mention that I subsequently experienced an anxiety-related medical emergency in the middle of second period. Being brought out of school in a wheelchair while crying and screaming and wearing my sweaty gym clothes was thoroughly embarrassing.) There are also finals coming up. Beurk. Excuses aside—sorry if it sounds like I stole and am repeating the contents of a complaint box—here is chapter 6! I hope that all of you wonderful people enjoy it.**

**Also of note: I added an explanation to the end of chapter 5. I apologize for the confusion! I also fixed a couple of things in previous chapters ("while simultaneously" was a headscratcher). The only change of real importance is that this story is no longer set six months into Danny's freshman year; rather, it is set at the beginning of his sophomore year. Hopefully, that's after _Reign Storm_, _The Ultimate Enemy_ and _Urban Jungle_... I'm not completely sure. There were two episodes in which Danny was on summer vacation, so he's in his junior year by PP, right? I feel like this fic is becoming really AU.**

**As always, suggestions and criticism are greatly appreciated. I read every review.**

**P.S. ****The computer I have been using is useless at this point; I suppose it _works_, but it does this really cute (*cough*) thing where it crashes almost immediately upon starting up, and then, when it attempts to reboot from crashing, it crashes again. Repeat_ ad nauseam, _and see if your head doesn't explode. Does anyone know if it's possible to update a story from an iPod? _EDIT (7/14/2012): Solved! Thanks, everyone!_**


	7. Chapter 7

Sam stomped down the sidewalk. She kicked gravel and litter out of her way; fellow pedestrians escaped similar treatment only by preemptively noting her murderous visage (and, consequently, removing themselves with speed). Occasional over-the-shoulder glares were the sole indication that she cared whether Tucker was with her or not.

When the _incident_ had happened, neither she nor Tucker could part the crowd. The other students' restrictive, individuality-destroying, conflict-creating, _stupid_ social hierarchy had been turned on its head—or, rather, thrown into a table. Of _course_ they would enter such states of surprise that the cafeteria became housing for a single, impenetrable congregation of morons.

Never had she smelled such a nauseous mixture of meat, garbage, sweat and something that was distinctly _teenager_.

_That_ had to be why she'd felt sick to her stomach; _that_ had to be why she'd shoved so desperately at those around her.

She had managed ten feet of progress when Mr. Lancer made it to the center of commotion, imploring anyone who could hear him to call the paramedics, to call the police. After scanning the room, she had discovered Tucker near the wall, where there were fewer people. He held up a cell phone and mouthed, _Taken care of_, his face blank.

Lunch ended early. Other staff members soon arrived to aid in herding students from the room. She and Tucker had hung back, standing just beyond the bottleneck at the doors until everyone cleared out.

"Time to go to class," a custodian said tiredly, holding his broom lengthwise to bar them access.

"We need to speak to Mister Lancer," Sam stated matter-of-factly.

"You can talk later. Get to class," he stressed, sweeping toward the door and the hallway beyond to emphasize his point.

She and Tucker made eye contact. After a brief, silent conference, they deftly ducked around the broom-brandishing man and started running.

The custodian sighed. "Lancer will straighten you two out."

After several paces, Tucker slowed to a walk. Sam continued regardless. Her boots echoed a tattoo of frantic clunks against the tile, and she could no longer blame the sickness she felt on meat or garbage or sweat.

No, it was seeing Danny lying prone beneath a table stained with blood.

"Danny!" she had cried without thinking, then clamped her hands over her mouth. But the damage was done; Mr. Lancer looked up from his position (kneeling to check _Dash's_ status, when Danny was the one bleeding, when Danny was the one unconscious, when _Danny_ was the one who had acted only in self-defense). Sam had glowered right back at their esteemed vice-principal.

"Miss Manson, Mister Foley," Mr. Lancer had begun, discomfited, "I regret to say that the five-minute passing period is still..." Abruptly, he changed tact. "What do you need?"

Sam knew that Mr. Lancer's teen-empathy was comic at best, but he had to recognize _some_ of the peer groups around school. Indeed, that very morning, he had chastised Danny and her for passing notes. She opened her mouth to voice her outrage—

—but rational thought had wormed its way in. What could she or Tucker have done that hadn't been already?

They both had rudimentary knowledge of dressing wounds; however, their practical skills extended to the concealment of small injuries. Danny took the brunt of attacks, and his regenerative abilities in ghost form ensured that only small scratches or bruises ever transferred over. Attempting what was beyond their depth when medical professionals were to arrive shortly would have been counterintuitive—in addition to being uncomfortably telling, considering the faculty presence—and hiding what had occurred in front of hundreds of people seemed pointless.

Danny had seemed unlikely to benefit from moral support at the moment, so that option was out.

And somehow, Sam had suspected that aiming a Fenton Thermos at their half-ghost friend wouldn't help the situation any.

Some of this must have translated to her body language, for Mr. Lancer continued, "I understand that the appropriate..."

"Done, Mister Lancer," Tucker had interjected. He started to display his cell; instead, he hugged it protectively to his chest.

Mr. Lancer's lips had pressed into a thin line, but it was the only indication of his habitual displeasure for rule-breaking. Sam's temper flared; after all, it was him who had allowed the students to use their phones. "Thank you, Mister Foley. If that is all?"

It had been a clear instruction to go to class, whichever way it was posed. Tucker touched her arm and turned to leave; she stormed out after him with one last, fleeting, helpless look at Danny. She comforted herself with the knowledge that she did not leave in compliance with Lancer's dismissal; she did so after her own assessment that neither she nor Tucker could be useful there. It was by _free will_ that they joined the other sheep.

In the two hours that followed, Sam's frustration had been allowed to fester freely. (When Paulina wondered loudly, "How did that loser even get close to Dash?" and _somehow_ convinced the Paulina-drones that Danny snuck up on the quarterback, Sam "_ruined!_" the other girl's pedicure and placed an angry mark on Paulina Sanchez's stupid, "_perfect_" shin.)

When the bell rang, Sam had immediately sought out Tucker and demanded, "Are you coming?"

Slightly ill-looking but nonetheless determined, he nodded.

And so, Sam stomped down the sidewalk, repelling the citizens of Amity Park in a manner otherwise reserved for the Fenton RV.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Hurrah, computer access once more. I feel terribly for leaving all of you hanging like that! Thankfully, this is not all I have written since my last posting, so the next chapter won't be nearly so long in coming. However, we are having guests later this week, and there is still much housework to do (which is a large part of my absence—sorting through tens of bins every day for hours on end rather drains one's "creative juices").**

**I've decided to include a snippet from a future chapter. (Spoiler alert!)**

* * *

**"What's it matter to you, anyway, Plasmius?"**

**Vlad could have snorted. "Are you so naïve?" He raised Danny off the ground. "Do you honestly expect decades of experience, study and _relentless _exercise in prevarication to leave me in a position to be bested by the average fourteen-year-old?" Pressing Danny into the brick wall, he fastened a hand around the boy's throat.**

**Danny merely glared. Then—**

**"Right." Vlad thought it a victory when Daniel seemed to realize a portion of his own shortcomings. "If I'm exposed, there goes your leverage. Got it. I was waiting for the 'self-serving Vlad' part of your visit to kick in."**

**"_Precisely._ Now, need I remind you what may transpire if you continue—"**

**"I'd love to hear it," said Danny, abruptly shifting into human form, "_But..._"**

**A shout sounded from the street beyond. "The Wisconsin Ghost!"**

**"Did I forget to mention that my friends meet me hear every morning?" With a cheeky grin and scream of terror, Danny bolted.**

**"Oh, butter biscuits."**


End file.
